


Tea for Three

by yuuen



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fellas is it gay to obsess over your enemy?, M/M, POV First Person, POV Hubert von Vestra, hatelust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23251702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuuen/pseuds/yuuen
Summary: Let your hate for me fill you. Let its blood-black ink consume every surface of your glimmering, sun-bright body. The more you hate me, the more of me is within you; your unbridled enmity is the evidence of my presence occupying space within your mind, within your heart. Love or hate, it doesn't matter; I'll take your disgust just as happily as I am to give it.The more you hate me, the more you resemble me. Vulgar, isn't it?Hubert watches a meeting between Ferdinand and his professor. He's obviously not invited, but that doesn't stop him from crashing the party.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 6
Kudos: 69
Collections: Kissathon





	Tea for Three

To watch Ferdinand suck up to our professor is to invite nausea. And yet, here I am, utterly repulsed. I peer at them across the café, my face hidden behind a to-go cup of coffee. It goes down too hot, too bitter; the acidity is much too bright when paired with the bile rising into my throat.

They share a teapot. It's glossy white, painted with chiffon-delicate cherry blossoms. Romantic? Or simply disgusting? Does Professor Eisner even _like_ tea? I'm sure the kiss-ass bought it, a snobbish bribe in the hopes of boosting his grade. Or is a grade all Ferdinand's after, batting his eyelashes like that? He leans in, voice too low to hear from this distance. His obnoxious, syrupy laugh, however, is loud enough to bounce across the high rafters, with or without his hand in front of his frog mouth. Perhaps that mouth of his would look more proportional were it not for those fish lips and his ever-present smile.

_The melody of your laugh never fails to stop me cold—warm—in my tracks. My coffee lingers halfway between the table and my mouth. But it isn't my mouth that's important; it's yours. Such supple lips, peach-sweet and dewy, begging for a kiss—or perhaps a cock._

_I'd gladly oblige._

_It'd surely shut you up for once. No more of your impassioned garbage about manners and civility, oh no. Just your soft, hot mouth around my cock, and your shining eyes staring up at me, silently asking if you're a good boy, if you're doing this right._

Look at him, simpering and cooing at the professor. He might as well be singing _Fuck me! Fuck me, professor!_ Pathetic, desperate whore.

Does he think he's fashionable in his cashmere scarf and riding boots? He looks like a horse-obsessed girl. His crumpled waves swept up into a sloppy ponytail only further such a ridiculous picture. Pants that tight must constrict the blood flow to his brain; I suppose he thinks his legs are his best feature. Laughable. Given the flirtatious way he smiles at the professor, I halfway expect him to reach across the table and take his hand. But this is a student-teacher meeting, not a date, even if Ferdinand thinks otherwise.

_Oh, the things I'd do to you if I got a hold of your Rapunzeline hair. Is it as down-feather soft as it looks? No matter. I'll pull on it all the same. Bury my face within those mermaid waves and inhale the scent that drives me into feral hunger every time you're in my presence until I'm high and halfway to oblivion._

_I wonder how tightly you can squeeze those pretty thighs around me. I want you to crush me with them, want to gasp for breath as I spill every ounce of my frustrated seed inside that sweet ass of yours._

The two of them stand up. Over already? I'd say it's a waste of an entire pot of tea, but it's the equivalent of dumping dirty water down the drain: not so much a waste as it is appropriate waste disposal.

Professor Eisner gives Ferdinand a light wave before walking out of the café. Ferdinand smiles and bites his lower lip. I watch as the blood rises to the surface, painting his full lip a soft shade of blossom-pink. Vile. Is that supposed to be flirty? I shift in my chair.

_I'll bite your lips harder than that, my sweet slut._

_Bring the blood completely to the surface, watch it stain your lips with cherry desire before I lick it all away. And you'll bite me too, harder, bring me exquisite pain that makes my eyes water. A bloody kiss, shared beneath the moonlight, as I wrap my fingers in your hair and you rake your nails down my chest._

_Scream for me until your throat is hoarse. Take all of me until your body can go no further._

My attention lapses. When it returns, Ferdinand's golden eyes are pointed my way. His eyebrows drop, weighted down by the heat of his anger, shading his eyes with rage. His nostrils flare. He tips his jaw up. And, oh yes, the scowl Mr. "Positive Vibes Only!" Ferdinand sends me is positively murderous.

_Yes. Let your hate for me fill you. Let its blood-black ink consume every surface of your glimmering, sun-bright body. The more you hate me, the more of me is within you; your unbridled enmity is the evidence of my presence occupying space within your mind, within your heart. Love or hate, it doesn't matter; I'll take your disgust just as happily as I am to give it._

_The more you hate me, the more you resemble me. Vulgar, isn't it?_

I smile faintly in response, an undoubtedly crooked and vile display to set his blood boiling. His shoulders rise with a shuddering, perhaps cleansing, breath. He looks to be debating with himself—to say something or to, as he's so fond of saying, "take the high road."

He follows that oh-so-noble path, storming out of the building. The bell above the door jingles far too violently, to the point that it knocks about with a hollow noise instead of singing its usual cheery chime.

Good. He's gone. Now I can properly enjoy my drink.

The quality of the espresso is surprisingly passable for such a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. Hard to focus on the way it feels on my tongue, though. I stare at Ferdinand's empty table. I tap my fingers along the paper sleeve of my cup. Trace the café logo with my nail. My knee bounces beneath the table.

Perhaps it's the caffeine. Ha, as if any amount of caffeine could set my hands trembling anymore. More likely this restlessness is the lack of something—someone—to set my attention on.

_Is it possible to miss you so soon? I'm a mess for you, do you know that? I hate what I've become because of you. I'm trash. A festering pool of filth and pheromone and pulsating blood._

_I hunger for you. Let's be clear that I need nothing. Selfishly, I_ want. _Want to sink my teeth into your soft flesh, mark your neck, your thighs. Want to devour you until we're one._

I push my chair back and weave between the empty chairs and tables. Even the barista is too preoccupied with her phone to bother watching over the deserted café.

I'm at their table.

Their grandmotherly teapot rests, half-full, atop a bronze-finish warmer, the tealight still burning within. Drops of milk lead from the miniature pitcher to Professor Eisner's saucer. Sugar litters the table between both their cups; a half-melted cube sits on the professor's teaspoon.

I rest my fingertip onto the edge of Ferdinand's cup. There's a thin layer of tea left at the bottom, with just a hint of tea leaves as gritty smudge beneath the red liquid. I glance at the counter. The barista laughs at a video on her phone. I bring the cup up to my face.

The tea is surprisingly fragrant. There's a hint of hazelnut to it that surprises me and, paired with the heavy earthiness of the scent, is more reminiscent of coffee than it is of my usual idea of tea.

Without a second thought, I lift his cup to my lips and drink the remnants. Sweet, too sweet, the mark of at least three whole sugar cubes dropped in, melted into the bottom of the cup. Sugar, with a splash of tea. A surprising lack of milk. And yet the flavor is just as it smells. It's not coffee, but it's not bad.

But who cares about the tea?

I let my lips linger on the rim of the teacup, where his lips touched down only minutes before. I pretend, for a moment, that the ceramic surface is still warm. And it is, now, albeit from my own lips.

_A sort of kiss, isn't it, darling boy? Something for us to share, if indirectly. Will I ever find myself at the holy temple of your mouth, paying my penance along your lips, and finding salvation on the tip of your tongue?_

I set the cup down with an empty clatter. Smooth down my peacoat and hair. Is this truly what I've become? A stalking entity, the shadow to his sun, thirsty for a kiss?

How loathsome.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, the joys of hatelust. Hubert, you fucking goth nerd.
> 
> Written for the [Kissathon](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Kissathon). My prompt for myself was "Indirect Kiss." Just to change things up a little bit. I _would_ write something for a _Kiss_ athon that involves _no actual kissing._ Why am I like this?
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/arcana_black) a lot.


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